Mutual Assured Annoyance: Culture Conflict Theory
by candysays
Summary: Giles asks Buffy to stop the suicide of an old friend's son, thereby breaking age-old sacred treaties and revealing the alternate species' existence to the Slayer. Buffy is not amused. Trust me, neither is Edward. The Volturi won't be either. No Bu/Ed!
1. Glittering! Really, Giles?

"Glittering?! Really, Giles? _Glittering?_"

The watcher looked embarrassed. "Well, er—" He took off his glasses and started polishing them. "Yes, you could say that."

Buffy crossed her arms and looked less than amused. A lot less. "I know I could. I just did. Because _you_ did. And really, I wouldn't be likely to make something like that up."

Giles looked down at his glasses, clearly annoyed at their spotlessness. "No—I—I suppose not." He stifled a chuckle.

Buffy peered into Giles' face. "Did _you_ make it up, Giles?" she asked, suddenly hopeful.

He shook his head.

"Feeling at loose ends? Midlife crisis number 17 leading you astray to drugs and alcohol? Hallucinating?"

"Afraid not."

"Spell? It's witchcraft, isn't it. I _knew_ it. Wiccans. Always with the sparklies. Stupid witches."

"No, but I'll tell Willow you said that if you don't buckle down and get to work on this, Buffy. I know you're—displeased, but this is actually very important."

Giles frowned, accentuating the importance he sought to convey. The frown made Buffy want to throw things but she didn't want to face the repair costs—on her apartment or on any out of work librarian that got in the way of the various medieval weapons and coffee cups that happened to be the objects closest at hand.

One thing was certain, since they'd moved their base to Italy after the hellmouth had swallowed Sunnydale, the coffee in Buffy's life had gotten a lot better.

Not so, apparently, the watchers. _Focus,_ Buffy.

"Gi-yels!" Instead of braining him, she settled for wailing his name out into two syllables, because she knew that really bothered him. "You mean to tell me, you seriously mean to tell me, that there is an entire _species_ of—Liberace vampires that you somehow neglected to tell me about in the last, I don't know, _decade_ or so?"

"Well, you know, it didn't come up, they're not all—how would you say? Hellmouthy."

Buffy started pacing, arms still crossed. "Don't you start trying to make this ok by disarmingly talking like me. It didn't come _up,_ Giles? For seven years, I'm the chosen one, she who is born to stake the vampires, one in all the world, blah, blah, blah, and you were my watcher, with—with books, and volumes, and texts full of vampires that we all read for years, and it _didn't come up_ that there was an entire other species of vampire that can't be killed by staking? What if I'd run into one on patrol?"

"Impossible." Giles found himself wondering if he couldn't come by a concussion in the next thirty seconds or so. It had been some time since he'd been hit over the head with a blunt instrument, and while he was hardly craving the experience, he was sure he'd prefer to be unconscious for the rest of this conversation. His head remained intact, however, and Buffy's stare remarkably unflinching. He settled for muttering something about a treaty and suggesting they move to address the matter at hand.

"Matter at hand? What, you mean, like, a stake? Like what we've been training these bazillion slayerettes to use to—kill, um, who was it? Oh yeah, _vampires_, who you're now telling me can't be killed by them?"

"Buffy. Don't be so testy. I'm sure it adversely affects your concentration—and it destroys your syntax. Now. To be perfectly clear, I didn't say they couldn't be killed. I'm quite sure you could—handle that, very, er, adequately. Just, not with a stake."

"Weapon forged by man?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Ok, Giles. Just how does _one_ go about killing one of these secret glittery vampires you've never seen fit to tell the one who it is your sacred duty to—oh, whatever, how do I kill them?"

"It's simple, actually, you—rend them limb from limb, and then, you burn the pieces so they can't regenerate. A child could do it, really," he muttered, looking for some lint to remove from his sleeve.

"Great," smiled Buffy, brightly, "since children are what I seem to have an army of. When do we start?"

Giles got up and started pacing, running his fingers through his hair. "But you see, that's just it. 'We'—that is, you—must act alone—at least for now. And we hope there won't be any killing, nor any cause to escalate matters further. There are reasons—sacred duties, if you will—why these creatures were never mentioned to you, and for the most part were not mentioned in the lore. There are, in fact, treaties, global territories apportioned out between the species since time immemorial."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Which all the vampires in the world totally respect because they are such a law-abiding bunch?"

Giles smiled slightly at Buffy's comment about law-abiding vampires. It was true, little in her experience had prepared her for the kind of creatures waiting for her in Volterra or Forks, should such a trip become necessary. Unless, of course, the laws in question were laws regulating the velocity of motor vehicles, her sarcasm was little more than a statement of fact as far as the Cullens were concerned. He shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to give away more than was absolutely necessary for the completion of the mission. He had been so conditioned to reveal nothing, it was a very difficult habit to break.

"Well, actually, when it comes to certain sacred treaties and the like, you'd be surprised how careful the most feral vampire can be. These agreements and understandings are so ancient, that for most of the species with whom you've come in contact, abiding by them probably feels like instinct. And, for those who know—in either species—well, let's just say, that the penalty for revealing their existence is—final, extremely painful, and by no means quick."

"So these vampires, they're shiny but shy?"

"If by shy, you mean, extremely secretive, then yes. The secrecy of the species is the only rule by which they live, and there is an entire guardian council, located not far from here, as it happens, in Volterra, whose sole duty is to mete out justice to those who break that rule—or any of the treaties I mentioned." Giles took a deep breath. "Which brings us to . . . er, what brings us here."

Sighing sulkily, Buffy threw herself into a chair. "Well, all right. I guess you'd better spill it if you think it's so important. What is it. Apocalypse?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that."

"No?" Surprised, Buffy stopped to consider. What even rated anymore besides that? "Then what?"

Giles looked down, aware he might be—blushing, even. "Er, a—very bad day?"

He looked up into Buffy's raised eyebrows and immediately looked down again.

"Bad day for who, Giles?"

"Whom, actually."

"Giles, last time I checked, I could still stake _you_. Now _spill._"

The poor watcher put his head in his hands. He knew Buffy well enough to know she would not give this up, but he also knew her well enough to know that she would be—displeased with some of the details of what he had to tell her.

"All right, Buffy, what I need you to know is that one of . . .glitterers, has gotten it into his head to do away with himself, and the only way he could think of to do it—it being difficult to rend oneself limb from limb, apparently, much less immolate oneself afterwards—is to go to Volterra and convince the council to do away with him. Failing that, he will reveal his presence to whatever humans happen to be attending a local festival, thereby bringing on himself the harsh penalty I mentioned. And also, making a huge vampiric mess right in the neighborhood where we are attempting to train our own young slayers."

"Oh. Ok, so I get it. You just want me to—do the job another, less messifying way. And am I assuming he'll just go along with this, or do I need to be able to take him, and if so—"

"Well—wait. No, it's—rather simpler even than that. I don't want you to kill him, I want you to—save him."

"_Save him?_ Giles. Slayer. Slay-er. Put 'em together and you have—slayage. Not savage. I mean. Save-age. Whatever. These vampires, they do eat . . . people, right? Or is there more they're not telling me? Do they have souls and sip glittery lattes or something?"

"Not exactly. Well, no definitive word on the souls. But as it happens, the young gentleman—er, creature, in question—is a member of a clan of vampires who have renounced human blood. They hunt wildlife and consider themselves vegetarian."

"Hmph. I'd like to hear them explain that to Little miss Meat Is Murder Rosenberg."

"Yes, well, until they come up with a vegetarian _blood,_ I'd say they're doing the best they can."

"No need to get all huffy." Buffy looked at him quizzically. What was this clan to Giles, anyway?

"I'm not huffy. I just don't understand why you, of all people, is unwilling to accept my proposal that there is a vampire out there worth saving."

Watching his slayer's reaction told him very quickly that had been quite the wrong thing to say. Everything about her stance suddenly proclaimed, stifled fury no longer stifled.

Her voice was tense, escalating to shrillness. "Maybe because you tried to get the vampire _I_ thought was worth saving killed in the middle of the last Apocalypse—and then _he_ died saving the world!"

Giles shook his head. "Well, if you're going to be clinging to old grievances. . . . I mean, after all, he got better."

"Old grievances—" Buffy exploded, not at all ready to consign Spike the ash heap of history.

"And do I have to remind you that your vampire boyfriend _before_ Spike killed _my_ girlfriend, not to mention torturing me? If you want to go head to head on old grievances or whose track record is better on sparing lovesick vampires. . . ."

Buffy sank down in defeat, pouting. There really wasn't a comeback to what Angelus had done to Giles after injudicious sex with Buffy had robbed Angel of his soul. Old grievances indeed. "Well, if you're gonna pull out the big guns, fine," she grumbled, "but do you mind my asking what's so special about this suicidal vegetarian fiend that makes you so concerned about his welfare?"

Giles was gracious in victory and only slightly smiled, a smile fueled further by the fact that he seemed to have gotten out of telling Buffy the detail most likely to irk her. "I explained that. The mess."

"Giles. Not born yesterday. I don't want to bring up old grievances _again_, but how well does it work for you when you hold out on me—historically speaking?"

Feeling himself starting to sweat, Giles took out his handkerchief and wiped the signs from his brow. "If it helps, he's rumored to be almost impossibly good-looking. Perfect in every way. Irresistible to all females. Even smells good." He looked at Buffy hopefully.

Nodding, Buffy spoke slowly. "Oh. So I see, you're setting me up on a blind date, because you're thinking—what more does Buffy need than another impossibly goodlooking suicidal vampire boyfriend? Third time's the charm, right? Thank you. So much. You always have my best interests at heart."

"Really not, Buffy. I'm sure he's a little young for you and—I believe there might be some other, er, incompatibilities. . . . from what I've gathered of your, er, tastes." Giles voice trailed off. There were certain levels of embarrassment that were completely impossible to speak through, and anything even approaching a young girl's . . . tastes numbered among them.

Buffy, however, had picked up on a different aspect of Giles' statement. Stung, she heard her voice pitching toward a whine again. "Too _young?_ Giles, I'm not _that_ old."

Giles buried his head in his hands, his thoughts turning wistfully to his overdue concussion once again. "No, no. Of course not. Not at all."

"Well, then, just how old _is_ this too young for still young Buffy?"

"I believe he was turned at approximately seventeen."

"And how long has he been seventeen?"

"Er, a while."

"And by a while, you mean . . ."

"Only about a hundred years."

"Right. So he's barely out of diapers. Nice try. Do you want to keep digging this grave yourself? Or should I get in and help you?"

Swallowing hard, Giles took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Fine, Buffy. Although I don't see why it should matter to you, as it happens, the young . . . glittery fiend is the adopted son of—of the doctor who cared for my aunt during and after her gall bladder surgery. And did a wonderful job, I might add. So I would simply like to—return a favor to a kind, generous, er, man."

But Buffy wasn't having it. "An er, _man_ adopted a 'young' vampire? "

"Yes, in a manner of speaking."

"In the manner of speaking that uses the word 'man' to refer to 'vampire?'"

"A bit."

To Giles surprise, Buffy started laughing—not, actually, a common occurrence. "Oh, my God, Giles, you really had me going there for a while. I totally surrender. Next thing you'll tell me, gullible's not in the dictionary."

Confused, Giles spouted, "Of _course_ gullible's in the bloody dictionary, what on earth do you—oh. Quite. I see what you mean. No, unfortunately, I have not made this up to test your credulity. In fact, it's quite serious and I'm afraid you need to be on your way soon. We're not certain when Edward—the young, er, man—left South America, but he's almost certainly en route or already in Volterra."

Buffy sighed once more, at last accepting what Giles had told her.. "A vampire doctor."

"Yes—a very good one."

"Who fixed your aunt's gallbladder."

"Yes. And I was very fond of my aunt. So would you mind terribly getting on with it?"

"With what, exactly? How am I supposed to save him, anyway?"

Giles knew he had to tread carefully here if he wanted to keep secret the details he felt sure Buffy, given her history, would not handle . . . well. "Perhaps you won't have to. Members of his family are also rushing to the scene, but since they must travel from North America, it naturally will take them longer. However, it may be they arrive in plenty of time."

"His er, father is coming?"

"Unfortunately not. He's on call. Plus the young –creature—has been holing himself away recently and Carlisle isn't at all sure he'd have the desired effect. His sister and, his sister is coming."

"His sisters."

"Yes. And she can see the future, sort of, so she'll be contacting Carlisle if anything changes."

"Why doesn't she just call us?"

Giles rolled his eyes. "Didn't you listen to a bloody word I said about treaties and secrecy?"

"She doesn't _know?_"

"Not as yet, and if she doesn't have to, so much the better. These creatures have . . . a hard time keeping secrets from each other."

"They're very close?"

"Er, yes, exactly." Giles didn't feel there was any need to go into all their talents at the present moment. He wasn't at all sure they'd be able to read slayer thoughts or futures in any case.

"So, I'm just supposed to keep an eye out, and if the kid looks like he's about to do something drastic, like, walk in front of a bunch of people . . ."

"In the sun—"

"In the sun, then I'm just supposed to . . . physically stop him?"

"Yes, or, you know, you could try talking to him. You've got a track record on talking down suicidal vampires, you know."

Buffy cringed. "Yeah. I'm batting .500. If it were—_baseball_, I'd be a superstar."

"You could try talking about rounders—er, baseball. Apparently the vegetarians are enthusiasts."

"Fine. Great. That comes so naturally to me. Just one last thing, in case my impressive knowledge of the 69 Mets—"

"Try the Cubs. He was sired in Chicago."

"Well, if my impressive knowledge of the Chicago Cubs fails, or it turns out he's a White Sox fan, and I have to resort to other methods to talk the shy, impossibly handsome, glittering centarian teenage suicide down from his proverbial ledge. Why does he want to kill himself, anyway?"

Giles hoped more than life that he was not blushing in the slightest. "Who knows these things? Angst, one imagines. You've been depressed, you—know how it is. Things get unclear. Perhaps he tried working in the fast food industry, or . . . read too much poetry or something. Or, if he's devoted to the Cubs—from what I understand, that can be very stressful. In any case, you try to talk him down. Or, in the worst case scenario, if the Volturi—the council—agrees to end his life, you'll need to try to . . . intervene. At which point, you will call me for backup and all hell breaks loose. But Carlisle assures me that's highly unlikely."

Buffy nodded, seemingly satisfied, but she began pacing again. This was, naturally, a lot to process. And not like she didn't have all the respect in the world for Giles the suddenly very devoted nephew and his vampiric doctor friend. If Giles said someone was good people, or, good demon, he was usually right. Nonetheless, she couldn't help feel that he was holding out on her in some way—which, considering that she had just found out he'd been holding out on her in the biggest way imaginable for their entire working relationship, was hardly surprising.

Sacred secrets or no, if she had to go and try to talk a sad vampire off a ledge of some kind or maybe even fight off a vampiric council dead set on helping said vampire shuffle off this immortal coil—a vampiric council, by the way, none of _whom_ could be staked—if she had to potentially enter into a battle for which she had zero training or preparation, she really needed all the information she could get.

"Giles, I'd like to say I trust you, but at this moment, that's really hard. I'd like to think you aren't sending me off to confront a potentially dangerous enemy without all the pertinent facts. I'd like to think that you still love me a little bit too much for that." Now, Buffy just looked serious.

Buffy looked serious, and lost, and suddenly, in spite of all her experience and responsibility, vulnerable and hurt.

It was not a look against which Giles had ever had the slightest resistance.

"Alright, Buffy, there is one more thing, but I warn you, I don't know how relevant it will end up being. The young. . . vegetarian is distressed because—oh, you know better than anyone," and he started muttering, with only the odd word like "star-crossed" and "forbidden" vaguely intelligible.

Arms crossed, Buffy was immovable, waiting. Her foot began to tap. "Forbidden _what?" _she prodded sternly. "Wait—you mentioned before, your track record with lovesick vampires. . . .Oh, Giles. No way."

"Oh, all right, Buffy, yes bloody way. It seems he's gone and fallen in love with—"

Eyes narrowed, Buffy cut him off. "Giles, if you say human, I'll lose my lunch."


	2. Inward Hell

Stephanie Meyer owns Edward. George Gordon, Lord Byron, owns at least half of this chapter because it turns out he writes Darkward much better than I do. It's from _The Giaour, _one of the first Vampire fics ever. But Mistah Byron, he dead. And totally in the public domain.

* * *

Pain drips.

Sappho wrote. And lied. Pain rages, flames, and then, having consumed all, consumes anew.

_Snatch from ashes of your sires/ The embers of their former fires . . ._

Water drips.

As seawater from a corpse, cold, tangled, gone. _ . . . can it be,/That this is all remains of thee?_ Pulled from the depths by others, late. _The first, last look by death reveal'd! / Such is the aspect of this shore,_ that shore. He knew, without knowing, which it had been, which shore. First Beach, last beach, and without end . . . the one in the world he could never mar with his footsteps in the sand.

As if that was why he had not been there to save her.

As if he had not rather brought about her doom.

_Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way/ To villain-bonds and despot sway._

He had done it. As clearly as if he had shoved her from the cliff with his own hands. He had torn his very root of life from the soil that fed it, not knowing he was tearing hers as well. Not knowing her roots had grown so deep, so deep and tangled with his own.

_There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life . . ._

Because he had been doomed to blindness, while hearing everything too clearly, everything, everyone but her.

Pride goeth . . . but not before her fall.

These thoughts, these truths, this searing pain, these, then, were _ the graves of those that cannot die . . ._

As if he had not sunk low enough before.

It could not be borne. There must be death for him, if his life was lifeless, skin cold and pale and bloodless as his own, dripping on a rocky shore . . .

_What can he tell who treads thy shore?_ He can tell the tale, old treaties, blood vengeance, the one love that should never, ever be.

_'T were long to tell, and sad to trace,/ Each step from splendour to disgrace;_

Someone else can tell it now.

_No more her sorrows I bewail,/ but this will be a mournful tale._

Edward Cullen's tales are done. No more.

For humans, all tales end like this: _Hers is the loveliness of death. _

But _she should have died hereafter_, in his arms and not alone in darkness and despair. Like Macbeth's lady, she would have been wife to a fiend, a fiend who thirsted for blood, but in Edward, she should have found, at least, a fiend who would never leave her side. Who would not let her jump to her death offstage and alone but hold her through her life and then, in time, hold her, caressing, rocking her spent body into its loving death.

Instead, it was Edward who had left the stage. Who had not been waiting in the wings. Who had not seen the madness coming, too distracted always by his fear and shame and lust for blood to see there were other enemies.

In the wings. There should have been wings for her, but of angels, not demons.

Her death should have been his, but after a lifetime of her.

Not like this.

Not after he had fought tooth and nail against his monster and then other monsters outside him, all for her, all to keep that life threading through her veins. Not after all that, how he had drunk her fragrant blood and given it back to watch it in her pulse as she slept, curled in trust beside him.

Not after he broke that trust, broke her.

_He who hath bent him o'er the dead__  
Ere the first day of death is fled,  
__The first dark day of nothingness,  
The last of danger and distress. . . _

He hoped it would be the last. Would that the Volturi would reach their verdict soon, and in their mercy grant his last, and now his only wish.

To end this pain.

Well, that, and to get the thoughts of all these _insufferable_ people out of his head.

One in particular, vague, indistinct, he couldn't even tell if it was because she was far away or just . . .stupid. It was clear she was irritated and . . . confused, he could barely read her thoughts but they were shouting at him nonetheless, but only in bits and pieces. The intelligible bits were saying things like "stupid," and "talk him off, more like help him along" and "probably doing the girl a favor," as well as, inexplicably, "who cares about the stupid Cubs, anyway?" Unfortunately, however, in the unclear mind of this girl who seemed certain to be blonde and of far below average intelligence, the word that much more frequently accompanied the epithet "stupid" was "vampire."

It was irritating. In the extreme. And curious. Almost enough to distract a very intelligent vampire from a world of endless pain.

But not quite.

_And fire unquench'd, unquenchable,__  
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;__  
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell  
The tortures of that inward hell._

Relief was sure to come soon. From inward hell . . . and the idiotic blonde thoughts invading it.


	3. Shut up and drive

AN: This scene takes place just before the previous, very Byronic chapter. All these characters are owned by other people. I make no money from them.  


* * *

Giles' shiny, cherry-red midlife crisis number 12 twisted along the highway at top speed. Buffy was strapped into the passenger side, knuckles white around the seat belt, the look on her face one of sheer terror.

Giles loved the freedom of Italian highways, the way the whole country had decided traffic signs and signals were nothing but a little joke by which to amuse the tourists. He loved that no road was complete without a death-defying hairpin turn at least once every two kilometers. He loved that if he sometimes forgot which side of the road he was meant to be on, he blended right in with the natives.

It all kept one, as he tried to explain to his slayer, feeling alive.

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good that'll do you after it has _killed_ 'one.'" Buffy snapped, shutting her eyes tightly.

Deciding to keep the conversation light, Giles opted for a little introduction to the interesting locale toward which they were headed. "Buffy, did you know—it's a bit ironic, actually—that the famed French novelist Stendhal wrote a book on love, and that the devastating encounter that inspired the entire undertaking took place in—guess what Italian city?"

"Sicily," grumped Buffy.

"Yes, Volterra, very astute. Apparently, mad with unrequited love, Stendhal followed his beloved to the city, making a very ineffectual attempt at incognito that consisted entirely of a pair of green glasses and an overcoat. And then, the idiot—he took of the glasses, and—"

"Burst into flame?"

"Was recognized. It ended by his making an utter fool of himself—but then, I suppose his ultimate revenge is that he makes a deranged fictional character out of the woman. Mathilde is one of the great creations in one of the greatest, best-loved novels, _The Red and the Black,_ and the real woman? Who remembers her?"

"Ok. Giles? How long are you going to be making me feel better with the bitter romance trivia? Because I don't know how much more better I can take feeling right now—G_ILES, _that doesn't mean you can _kill me now! _We drive on the right side, here, ok? Today's about preserving life, remember?"

The car had careened around a particularly dramatic hillside that opened out to a stunning green vista on the other side. Buffy seemed to feel Giles had been overly enthusiastic in his appreciation of their surroundings, but really—the oncoming car had been far in the distance. Giles looked at Buffy's pale face and pinched lips with concern.

"Buffy, really. I know as well as the next person that motoring is not perhaps your favorite mode of transport, but you regularly face down untold legions of the undead not to mention a yearly apocalypse—has it never occurred to you that your fear here might be—by comparison—a trifle. . . exaggerated?"

Muttering something about statistics and auto fatalities versus death by vampire, Buffy turned toward the door, eyes still screwed shut.

Giles found himself getting irritated with the histrionics, and his irritation took on an increasingly pompous tone. "Buffy, you know perfectly well that statistics do not apply to singularities, and that the general population's relationship to vampires is nothing like your own."

As soon as the words left his mouth, however, Giles regretted having voiced them.

With a loud snort, Buffy's eyes popped open and turned on Giles, flashing.

"I don't know, apparently my relationship to vampires is just _all the rage_ among the teen population of . . . Spoons, Oregon or whatever_._"

This time, Giles thought he'd try _not_ talking.

"I mean, was there anything else you wanted me to take care of in terms of this new trend? Maybe—pen a few 'Buffy, a Vampire Lover's View' columns for _Glamor?_ Or was that _Glimmer?_ or, I don't know, you and I could work up—'What's Eating You?— _Cosmo's_ quiz to find out which demon species _you're _dating?'"

Giles chuckled.

"It isn't funny."

"It is, rather." Giles swerved to avoid an oncoming car and noted that Buffy's entire body tensed as if ready to spring at the offending Volkswagon. She really was very …testy. Perhaps it was better to approach the subject head-on. "But listen, Buffy. I know part of the reason you are _so_ upset with this—situation—is because Spi—"

She rolled her eyes and huffed. "Giles. Duh. Suicidal vampires. Lovers. You're not getting an honorary degree in Psych for that connection, ok? I sleep with Angel and he tries to destroy the world, I send him to a hell dimension, he comes back and gets all suicidal on me—I talk him down and he leaves me for my own good. Sensitive? Me? Then Spike—I tell him I love him? he smirks that he doesn't believe me and kills himself to save the world. Of course then he doesn't tell me he's back from the dead cause he's not worthy, blah, blah, BLAH! I can't even _tell_ you how much I love being alone and abandoned for my own good. I make the best decisions that way! I bet Stella did too!"

"Bella. Yes, well—from what I gather, cliff diving, motorcycle without a helmet, teen werewolves—she'd give you a run for your money in that department!"

"Pssht. I'd own her. I bet _she's_ never brought a house down—never mind. But seriously, _she's_ someone I'd like to talk to, and you said he just—_left _her?" Buffy blew her hair up off her forehead and wailed, "Giles, I'm the _last person in the world_ who should be doing this. I don't want to save him, I want to finish him off!"

"You didn't want to finish Angel off," Giles reminded gently, "even when he was evil. _And_ he left you for your own good."

"Funny, that. And here I am, years later, a picture of emotional good health. Thank God he left me or I never could have been abandoned by Riley or gotten into any of that S&M without a safeword stuff with Spike. . ."

Giles moved to put his hands over his ears, a look of horror on his face that was quickly matched by a similar expression from Buffy.

"Giles! Truck! Lorry! Whatever! Hands on the wheel and drive!"

"On the one condition that you never, _never_ suggest you'll explain any of—Spike—to me again." The watcher's lips were a thin straight line. There _were limits_ to what any man should know.

Buffy looked out the window. This idea of this vampire willing to chuck it all because he thought his girlfriend was dead was burning her from the inside. Did he think he was the only one? She'd found her forever love young, and the part of her that was missing since she and Angel had parted ways would always feel empty. Always. The loss of his soul, though, was too high a price to pay—what if perfect happiness could be achieved by other means than making love with the person you loved? What if they stumbled into perfect happiness over really good bagels or an espresso by a canal in Venice—and then there he'd be, trying to destroy the world, murdering her friends, and there she'd be, sending him to hell again. So. They could never be together, stupid gypsy curse, and really, she—had had other things to do. Like saving the world and raising a sister, or failing to. And military men, and kinky vampires and . . .

Confusingly, her love for Angel had never gone away but a part of her had _liked_ that situation with Spike, and then when it had gotten…more awful, that part of her cringed in shame. And yet, in the end, she hadn't lied when she told Spike she loved him. Spike had sought redemption. When she'd been dead, he tried to make a difference, to the people she loved and to her work. And when she had thought _he_ was dead, she had done the same.

It was what you did. You honored the people you loved with your life. Or the vampires you loved. Or whatever.

There were different loves, and—this suicidal vampire was like bile in her throat, judging her, invalidating her whole life after Angel. If she could survive that loss, it was like he was saying that _her _love didn't count. Like romantic love was the only thing that mattered. Like responsibility didn't exist. Like if you felt pain, you could just cause it in others. Like there weren't other ways to live.

Of course he didn't know of her existence and wasn't saying anything to her at all, but it still felt like he was, and she didn't like it one bit.

Then Buffy blew up, speaking quick and fast, following on as if all of her thoughts had been voiced out loud. "But you just don't get to—check out just because someone you love dies, or you fall in love with the wrong person, or it doesn't work out. I _hate_ that, Giles!

It was one thing she'd learned. You didn't just get to check out.

Glancing toward his companion once more, Giles felt actual pain himself. She looked raw. "I understand, Buffy, and I agree, and we're going to try to stop it. But really, if you can't—find some empathy here, I'm concerned you may _actually_ end up finishing him off. What about Shakespeare? _Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra? _ Surely some part of you can understand—the belief in that sort of love."

"Ok. Giles? Let's pretend that you did _not_ just ask me, Buffy, if any part of me can understand star-crossed love, ok?" He watched her as raw transformed into sulky. Classic coping mechanism. Annoying, but an improvement. "And anyway," she continued, "Romeo and Juliet were thirteen, Cleopatra was old and a total slut, and Shakespeare talked funny and wore a _ruff_. So why I want to be taking life lessons from him, I don't know."

Buffy's face had settled into what looked like a permanent pout. "Suicide is _not_ romantic. Shakespeare was a poophead."

Sighing deeply, Giles finally relented and kept his eye on the road. He hardly meant to defend suicide—but clearly, his slayer's extreme reaction to another sentient creature's pain and weakness showed her to be far less healed emotionally than he had believed. And, he had believed her healing to be only very partial.

"Giles—what really pisses me off is—"

He glanced at Buffy and saw she was close to tears.

"That you have known, more than once, exactly how he feels. And yet, you are still here," he said gently. Of course he knew. He'd seen it. He remembered. He'd, of course, left her like that—for her own good.

The two sat in silence, a silence that acknowledged that Giles' last summation had been correct.

Giles hit the steering wheel lightly in frustration. It was a bloody bad mission for Buffy. He had, of course, wished for another alternative to involving her in this scheme to begin with. But secrecy was paramount, and Buffy for all her moods was completely trustworthy. He could not risk an interspecies war—more than was necessary—but he could not say no to Carlisle, who was as good a man—vampire or no—as he'd ever known. To have a son kill himself was a pain no one should have to endure—but surely, to have a son kill himself in error, in response to faulty information and the indiscretion of another of one's children, who would then have to live with that knowledge forever—it could hardly be born.

Still, stealing a look at Buffy, Giles grimaced. This situation had opened old wounds, and his slayer was in pain. Not for the first time, Giles wondered where in _bleeding hell_ Spike was.

Buffy sighed. "Look, I get it that they're different and aren't—down with the whole good and evil stuff but couldn't they, I don't know, do _something_ with their time to benefit someone? I mean, this Edmund—"

"Edward."

"Whatever. Teddy—he sounds like has all kinds of talents. Does it _have_ to be all about him? Doesn't he see anything in himself that he could imagine the world could benefit from?"

"Clearly, Buffy," and now Giles' tone was on the acid side, "he does _not_ feel that, surely you can see that _not_ feeling that is one of the problems that would…lead one to contemplate such an act?"

"Yeah, but—oh, whatever. Stupid vampire." And that seemed to close the subject.

As they neared Volterra, the silence became almost unbearable, but Buffy didn't care. She knew she was being pouty—but she _got_ to. Giles had kept an entire race of vampires a secret from her, the Vampire Slayer, for the entire time she'd known him. And then to top it off, he'd tried to keep this _twisted_ human-vampire love thing a secret, because he'd been worried it would stir up old hurts, and it _did_ stir them up, and now they were stirred, and hurty, and where the _hell_ was _her_ too beautiful formerly suicidal vampire, anyway?

As far as too beautiful depressive vampires keeping away from people for their own good went, Buffy had had her fill and then some. Her one hope for saving this Edmund from his own cruel self-involved stupidness was that afterwards, she could kick his _ass_ back to Brazil or wherever he'd sulked off to and she and Stella could have a gelato and chick flick party together.

The ringing of Giles' cell phone was a welcome interruption.

Of course Giles _would_ have the ringtone set on—ring. It sounded like a rotary phone. Stupid tweedwearing steampunk watcher.

"Ah, yes, Carlisle. We're almost—oh dear, the mountains do get in the way of reception—what was that? So they've landed but you can't reach—I see, so they've no idea we're—what was that? Oh I _see,_ well that's—fascinating….I say that's _fascinating,_ the future, really? What? Uncertain—I see, and yes, if the Slayer line runs—yes, it will be very interesting to see how Buffy registers on her—oh_ bloody _hell, that was a bit close—yes, that was just my Slayer screaming. No—just traffic. Yes, there _are_ rather a lot of others now, but she's still_…_my Slayer—in an affectionate, non-patriarchal way, of course—stop looking at me like that, Buffy—one more thing? You forgot to mention Edward is a fine reader? Well, I suppose that might prove helpful—does he know about Stendhal's connection to the city? yes, a fine reader—Carlisle, what?" Giles shook the phone in exasperation. "Dropped bloody call. Brilliant timing."

He looked at the road ahead. "Uh-oh. Looks like a standstill.

The second the car had rolled to a stop in the standstill traffic outside the city gates, Buffy leapt out, obviously beyond thrilled at the excuse. "Well—look at the time. I'm sure with slayer speed I can run faster than this is going to move—you think he'll be by the fountain, by a clock?"

"That's just our best guess. Look around—oh, and Buffy—it's a vampire festival, so—people will be dressed as vampires. . . ."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Well, that simples it up, doesn't it?"

"No, it does—remember, Edward doesn't have fangs, you know. And as I said, from what I hear—he's extraordinarily goodlooking if a trifle—broody."

"Huh. Weird. What did she ever see in him?" Buffy shrugged and jogged off to the side of the road and behind a row of trees, where she hoped she could run less conspicuously.

A few moments after she'd left, Giles was inching along when his phone rang. "Ah, Carlisle. Yes, this _is_ better. Oh, dear, so you can't reach them because their cell phone only works on the American system? That _is_ distressing, what's that? So they have no idea we're coming. Well, perhaps they'll call in. Now, what was that about Edward's reading? Buffy's not much of a literary person, I don't know how that will help, you should have heard what she just said about Shakespeare—well, no you shouldn't—" He slammed both hands down on the steering wheel, accidentally dropping the phone. "Yes, I heard you this time. A _mind reader, _yes. That would—be valuable information. I just wish—I had told Buffy. . . no, she's already gone. Of course there's no way of knowing how that will work on Buffy, just as with Alice's futures. Still, she could have been thinking ;Edward, Edward, Bella's alive'…Oh but of course, I'll just call her. Good luck with the rest of the surgery, Carlisle, I'll be in touch."

Giles hit his first speed dial number and waited, relieved his panic had been for nothing. He didn't know what difference the mindreading would make, but he did indeed hate the thought of sending Buffy into a potentially dangerous situation at any kind of disadvantage. Especially after their conversations about exactly that. Especially considering how vulnerable she'd looked in the car.

He left a message on her voicemail, the noise of the idling cars all around him drowning out the sound of the vibrating phone beneath her seat.

* * *

AN: And a month in, I did get several reviews! Got me writing another chapter. More will have me write more, but a big heartfelt thank you to *all* my "fine readers." This fic is, admittedly, a little on the different side.


	4. The Sickness Unto Death

**A young girl is in despair over love, and so she despairs over her lover, because he died, or because he was unfaithful to her. This is not a declared despair; no, she is in despair over herself. This self of hers, which, if it had become "his" beloved, she would have been rid of in the most blissful way, or would have lost, this self is now a torment to her when it has to be a self without "him"; this self which would have been to her riches (though in another sense equally in despair) has now become to her a loathsome void, since "he" is dead, or it has become to her an abhorrence, since it reminds her of the fact that she was betrayed. Try it now, say to such a girl, "Thou art consuming thyself," and thou shalt hear her reply, "Oh, no, the torment is precisely this, that I cannot do it."**

**--Søren Kierkegaard**

**

* * *

  
**

It was hardly to be borne. Not that it would be borne for any amount of time, of course, because the sun was high in the sky and soon there would be no turning back. The plaza was teeming with humans, some clad in red, some in tourist garb. Some were eager, certainly, but none was truly ready to see a vampire's real face.

Or chest, for that matter.

It would be chaos. He could imagine the sounds—the sharp intake of breath here, the suppressed scream there—he could even imagine laughter. In his mind's eye, he saw how mothers would cover the eyes of their young children, all the while craning their necks to get a better look while their husbands looked on in bemused but resentful disbelief.

Already their eyes were darting toward him, as wives struggled to hide their arousal at the barest glimpse of Edward Cullen, half hidden in dark shadows.

They would do their part, the witless humans, just as they always had. They were, in the end, instruments to be used when needed, but for the most part, ignored as much as possible, although he rarely had that luxury, thanks to his "gift." Which, like everything else about him, had failed utterly when it was most important.

Humans meant nothing to him now. If anything, Edward resented them because they were alive when _she_ was not. The only one who mattered—the one who had spoken to him like no other, but whose mind had kept its own council—was gone. _Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,/ And thou no breath at all?_ Why indeed? Because he had failed._ Thou'lt come no more,/ Never, never, never, never, never!_

Despair, despair was the sickness unto death. These moments of waiting, were as nothing to that pain, of course. To bear this last trial better, Edward could take strength and fortitude from the knowledge that his shirt would soon be off.

Sparkles would sign his death warrant soon enough.

Admittedly there was something off about that.

Because there was something off about the whole thing—not the horrible aching hole of Bella's death, which was not _off_, of course, but devastation defined. No, what was _off_ was the intermittent static nattering of whoever it was that kept cutting through his pain.

Whether his own mental anguish was causing his reception trouble, or if it was just the girl's own inadequacy as a thinker, Edward had no way of gauging. All he knew was that—there it was _again?_ Her thoughts made _no sense._

Oh, _perfect._ A thrash metal fan. Thrash, but not even the quasi-good stuff—at least according to Emmet. Naturally Edward himself would never choose to listen to such rubbish of his own free will, but vampiric hearing had its down side when dwelling with Philistines . . .

But of course—_this _git couldn't even cough up a decent Metallica reference. His unwitting and truly witless tormenter had to be obsessed with . . .Slayer.

And with every pointless interruption, the renewed consciousness of Bella's death came crashing down on Edward again, each momentary distraction only increasing the horror when his full awareness of this single, unimaginable, inexorable fact returned.

_Never, never, never, never, nev--._

And then the blond girl was back, quoting _Streetcar Named Desire_ again—Edward assumed—he couldn't think of another reason why her mind seemed to call out to Stella again and again. He couldn't pick up enough to hear if she was trying to do it in some pathetic imitation of the young Brando.

If so, it was a doomed project. Brando was so far from blond._ Stella . . ._In Brando's mouth the call had sounded like a plea from a torn soul, desperate with animal desire. In _her _mind, it sounded _cutesy._ Rather like the person saying it might _wear_ sparkles, but pink sparkles, and by choice.

As if soul-piercing agony was not enough.

He had to be annoyed, as well.

_Stupid vampire. . . _For the love of all that was holy—if there was anything holy left, which Edward doubted intensely—could she not shut _up?_ Did even his suicide have to be destroyed by human idiocy?

And to top it all off, one of her chief problems seemed to be that she couldn't decide between the Cubs and the White Sox. Of all the idiotic inconsistencies in the history of the universe.

It was like not being able to decide between the Allies and the Axis . . . the Old and New Testament . . . Kirk and Picard . . .

And there it was again, the dagger through his eye. Bella was still dead, it was still his fault, she died believing he had never loved her, and now on top of it all, he was besieged by idiocy. He couldn't even do Bella the justice of dying with dignity in her honor.

He had to be reduced to _this._

Perhaps, since he was dying anyway, he should rethink matters. Perhaps one more human death would be . . .understandable, under the circumstances.

No. That was no way to honor his Bella.

The button slipped through its hole smoothly.. It would be soon, so soon that he would be delivered from this pain.

And, consequently, from this idiot.

"All right, all right, keep your shirt on."

This was too much. Before, the chirpy yet sullen blondness had been coming through in static bursts, intermittent in his head, disjointed phrases raspy around the edges. Its newfound clarity took aggravating to a new level.

It sounded now, ironically, as if she were _trying _ to talk to him, her ridiculous idiom spilling over into the actuality of his situation. "Keep your shirt on. Just one more taunting slap in the face from fate's eager palm.

He would not be distracted. He would do this right.

Edward closed his eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath—too soon, perhaps, to be his last, but he could hope. Slowly, methodically, his fingers trailed again over the buttons of his shirt, threading each pale disk through his fingers, through fabric, and away. There was a comfort in ritual, all cultures had found. This would be no different. Each button, released mercifully from its confines, exposed a little more flesh, promised other, more fatal exposures in minutes—perhaps in only seconds.

Of course, there would be the Volturi and their procedures to contend with. But their justice—if not swift, if not painless—would at least be final.

"Edmund. English much? I mean, you're more likely to pass for _human_ than for Italian, buddy. But no need to tempt fate. I _said,_ keep your shirt on." And, in the last possible straw on top of the last straws that had already fallen on Edward's worn nerves, a small, warm hand gripped his wrist.

That hand was really strong.

Edward's head snapped around, his eyes already black from hunger now obsidian with hatred. His own hand closed over the twiglike interloper as he met the face—pretty, vapid, framed with blond hair.

Big surprise.

The girl was the one who was tempting fate. She would have no way of knowing, of course, but a desperate, lovesick vampire is not to be toyed with.

She started chirping again. "Wow, you really _are_ cold, aren't you? See? You should listen to your friendly neighborhood Slayer. You might need that shirt." The small yet curiously strong woman looked appraisingly at his clothing. "Which by the way is very nice in kind of a trad. way. I mean, it's no Italian designer, but it suits you. L. L. Bean?"

Edward felt his lip curl up of its own accord—but that only saved him the trouble of curling it himself.

"I'll let you take your fashion advice somewhere less dangerous," he snapped. "I must insist that you leave immediately. You are meddling in things of which you know nothing and in so doing putting yourself in grave danger." His ice cold, razor sharp tone brooked no resistance.

He would have thought.

But the execrable annoyance managed—Edward had no idea how—to free her wrist from his grasp. He then realized, of course, should have let go of her wrist of his own accord, given that he'd ordered her away yet she could hardly be expected to evade a vampire's clutches—more testament to his extremely disrupted state of mind.

He watched her with dark amusement as she placed her newly free hand with her other one on either side of her hips.

How threatening, sneered his monster, more than ready to go at her.

"Oh, my, God!" she squealed. "_You_ are so right. A broody guilt-ridden vampire warning me I'm in grave danger. I am _so_ out of my comfort zone! Whatever shall I do? Calgon! Take me away!"

The excrescence looked around her, expectantly, then disappointed. "Huh. Never an enormous foaming tub of scented bubbles around when you really need one, you know?"

So apparently, Kierkegaard had been wrong. It was not despair that was the sickness unto death. It was chirpy little blond girls.

Unless, of course, death had already happened. Kierkegaard had also said that death would not be the end, that the torment of the self that could not bear itself was eternity. Edward had just figured all that stuff didn't apply to him because he wasn't a Christian. Which was what the Dane had said, he thought.

What was it with Danes? Seemed to be a broody bunch. Hamlet had had some of the same issues—to be or not to be?

Of course, Edward had already chosen. He just hadn't realized he'd already _chosen_. He hadn't realized he was already dead.

Edward looked down and leaned heavily against the stone wall at his back. In the shade. He gave up. Apparently, he'd already given up. He must have sparkled without realizing it.

Because this was surely hell.

And Sartre, Kierkegaard's great heir in existential angst (until Edward), had been right. Hell _is_ other people.

Prescient, really. The philosopher hadn't even _known _this blond girl.

He darted another glance in her direction, willing her to be gone. If she was his eternal torment, he'd just made the worst mistake of his entire life.

Except for the whole part when he brutally lied to Bella, cruelly left her in the woods, crushed her soul, and hastened her death in an attempt to save her.

His eternal tormenter was cocking her head quizzically to one side and playing absently with a strand of her long blond hair.

"So," she said thoughtfully, "that was easier than I thought. I can't believe Giles made me come all this way and all I had to do was praise your shirt. I guess I'm good, but I think really anyone could have done the job. I mean, you don't need Slayer strength for that, right?"

Edward said nothing. Her thrash metal obsession was bordering on the insane. And by bordering, he meant that it had long since crossed deep into mental illness territory.

And she just went on and on.

"You're not really the chatty type, right? But I'm glad you rethought the whole suicide thing, because it could have gotten really ugly with one of your kind fighting the Slayer right here in the Volari back yard." She rolled her eyes, then paused for a minute as if in thought. "Hey, do they have anything to do with the cars? Because I think my dad had one when I was little."

Burying his head in his hands, Edward realized his diagnosis had one too many letters. It was not so much that she was completely _insane,_ it was that she was completely _inane._ Leave off the s for extra savings.

And now he, Edward Cullen, was stuck in an eternal loop with late-night mattress ads and a nattering blond girl inexplicably singing automobile commercials dating from decades before her birth. Bella was still dead, and suicide was no longer even an option, because, apparently, he was dead too and it was no improvement.

_The lost are like this, their scourge to be/ As I am mine, their sweating selves . . ._

"Are you going to start playing Slayer soon?" he asked weakly. "Because otherwise I don't see how this could get any worse."

****

Buffy swatted the now very young-looking, very crushed-looking vampire on the arm. _Ow,_ she thought, _he is really built. Or__—__oh, right. Granite-like construction. No stakes. Get a grip, Buffy. He's seventeen and obviously a total__—__git. _"Edmund. Seriously. I don't have to _play_ Slayer. But listen, how do you know about the whole Slayer thing anyway? I thought that was totally not—you know, your thing. I thought there were rules or something."

The vampire snorted. "There should be." Then he sighed heavily "But I guess when I decided to break all the rules, I was signing my own warrant. For here. Let's just say I know about it because I have a brother with less than impeccable taste and leave it at that."

Leave it at that? Not _likely. _She'd just saved his life, and now he had to get all snippy? Less than impeccable _taste_? Seriously? How many times had _he_ saved the world, she'd like to know. Hey—had she just used the word git in a sentence? Ok, fine, it was just a sentence in her own head, but still, Spike would be so proud.

_Spike._ She winced. _Where are you?_

After losing herself a moment in memories, Buffy looked over to the current impossibly good-looking suicidal love-sick vampire in her life. He was wincing too. Buffy drew a deep breath. Surely one impossibly good-looking suicidal love-sick vampire at a time was enough for any girl. She should be glad Spike was AWOL. Still, she felt pouty.

Well. Fine. She _had _been about to take pity on Edmund and tell him that Stella was alive—no thanks to him, she thought darkly—and that he could relax, enjoy the sunshine—from a safely shady location—and wait for his loving girlfriend and sister to show up.

She wondered, actually, where they'd gotten to. Traffic had been pretty atrocious—but from Giles had said, the girl Alice could be pretty much a demon behind the wheel.

_Hee. Literally. _Buffy suppressed a giggle.

Just then, Vampy McBroodsalot Junior whipped his ridiculously beautiful face toward her, his eyes deep black again, his face a mixture of rage and panic. Buffy felt all her defenses go up as every muscle tensed, ready for his attack.

Maybe this was not going to be so easy after all.

He was incredibly fast. His hand darted out toward her throat like it was made of stone lightening but her own hand headed him off, gripping his wrist again. His stare did not waver. "_What_ do you know about Alice, and what have you done to her? What's happened? Why is she coming here?"

_Oops. I said that out loud? _What else did I say out loud? She looked at him, but he still looked tortured and miserable. Chances were good, then, that she hadn't actually said any of that stuff about Stella. But then, you never knew with broody lovesick vampires. He could have already gotten over the happy part and moved on to leaving her again for her own good. Stupid vampire.

"Why is your sister coming here?" Buffy rolled her eyes. "Duh. Why do you think, Mr Rocket Scientist?"

Through gritted teeth, he repeated, "Where is she? Even here, I assure you I can make you regret your silence."

Retaining her grip on his weirdly hard arm, Buffy said slowly, "Believe me, it's not my silence I'm regretting now. Anyway. Alice is coming here because of _you,_ you idiot, and as for where she is—" Buffy shrugged. "Probably stuck in traffic. I could get here fastest cause, you know, Slayer—I guess that's why I was needed," she said, the last part obviously more to herself than to her companion, "I'm a post-apocalyptic traffic workaround now."

"Slayer." Buffy watched as the vampire's eyes narrowed in contempt and his lips formed a sneer around the word. So there were some things, she guessed, that the two vampire species _did_ have in common. But the fear in his eyes was not because of her. He was afraid for his sister.

Well, too bad. So he was stressed out. _No_ vampire got to say "Slayer" in that contemptuous way and walk away from it. Ok. Some did. But Buffy really, _really_ hated it when that happened.

Turns out he wasn't even finished yet. The contempt was still just oozing out of his beautiful but annoying lips. "You really just can't let go of that Slayer business, even for a minute, can you?"

"Me let go of _it?_" Buffy fumed. This was, after all, something of a sore spot with her. "It can't let go of _me,_ more like it. Just try having a sacred calling someday. You'll see. It's not so easy to get out of. Even though it's not like I'm the only one. I mean—you know there are a lot of us now, right?"

Snorting derisively, the vampire shook his head in disbelief. "I assure you, I am not overwhelmed by a sense of your originality, if that's what you mean. I have no doubt Hell is filled with _legions_ of fawning, idiotic girls just like yourself."

"You. Are _so_ cruising for a bruising. Do you have a death wish or something?" Buffy clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh—I mean. Of course you—Oops. My bad."

Gorgeous the Git didn't grace her with a response and instead just flexed his newly liberated wrist, examining it as if for damage. "Curiously strong," he muttered.

"You want a breath mint?" Buffy was surprised. Nonsequitor much? But whatever. He was in pain. And really, when you thought about it, not surprising a vampire would have an oral fixation. Or that he would take an instinctual dislike to a Slayer. "That's funny. Vampires aren't usually the fresh and minty type. I don't think they sell that brand here and anyway, I'm more of a gum girl. Doublemint?" She pulled out the green package and extended a foil-wrapped peace offering to him. He was incredibly offensive, but he was still grieving the loss of his great love. She could be generous.

Buffy considered that it would be an even greater peace offering to tell him Bella was still alive, but at this point, she felt so sorry for the girl, she didn't want to. After all, poor Stella had flown halfway around the world to try to save the guy who'd ditched her. Let her have her big moment.

But then Buffy saw that the ditcher in question was looking at her perfectly friendly gum offering as if it were a disease or a slug. Or a slug _with _a disease. A contagious disease. Whatever. He wasn't being very nice about it. He sighed. "Are you insane?" he asked, in a weary tone.

"Ok. So. Gum not your thing." Buffy stared at her shoes for a moment. They _were_ cute. Maybe she could go shopping later. Italy had the _best_ shoes and this whole lovesick vampire suicide thing had put her in a bad enough mood _without_ the unrelenting pissiness.

In fact, it was suddenly clear that even shoes would not be enough. She had _had_ it with this. "What say we rethink the whole I save you thing. I hear shirtless vamps are all the rage this year, anyway. Go ahead. Give in to despair. Give in to fashion. Whatever gets you through the night—or gets you, you know, dead. I wash my hands of the whole thing."

"You save me," laughed the vampire hollowly. "Everyone's a comedian in hell, apparently."

"Trust me. That's not what I've heard." Buffy's thoughts flashed to scenes of Angel, trembling and animal-like on his sudden return from the hell dimension she'd sent him to. Then, inevitably, she saw his face, despairing, beyond wounded as he realized what she'd done, how she'd responded to his outreached hand. And she had _loved_ Angel. Edmund should really learn to watch his step. "And you wouldn't be the first vampire I've sent there, either, so if I were you, I would stop flirting with disaster."

"As if I would ever flirt with you. Hell would freeze over first. And it's looking pretty balmy at the moment." Edward's lip curled in disgust again. "Nothing could _ever_ have tempted me toward you. Even before your death. Or mine."

Buffy couldn't remember the last time she'd been so angry. Probably Spike had been involved. "Oh thank God. Because otherwise I'd be in so much trouble, I just swoon for petulant teenagers. And what do _you_ know about my death? What do you know about my _life?_"

"Trust me," the disgust in Edward's tone only deepening, "more than I would _ever_ want to."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Buffy reflected. It really was far too public a place to dismember and burn a vampire corpse. Especially in front of all these vampire fans. Pity.

"It means, I would give a great deal not to have had my mind polluted by even fleeting images of what you did with that—bleach blond—punk rock wannabe—which is, I'd have to say, a little inconsistent of you, given your Slayer—thing." His voice made scare quotes around the word "thing" as if the colloquialism was beneath him but he knew he needed to translate himself for the benefit of his listener.

Did he think he was offering some kind of fresh analysis of the Slayer-vampire forbidden love business? "A _little_ inconsistent? Newsflash! Mr Rocket Science defeated by Captain Obvious! The crowd goes wild! And how in the _hell_ you keep going on about do you know anything about Spike and me? I thought the whole—our side of things—was supposed to be some kind of big secret." Buffy started pacing, her voice getting louder. "I mean, were there regular Buffy broadcasts that I should know about?"

"Who's Buffy?" He looked confused. As if.

"Oh! Rocket Science makes a surprise comeback! _I'm_ Buffy, you moron." She grabbed his hand and shook it violently. "Pleased to meet you. You're a vampire, and I'm Buffy the Vampire Sl—"

"Edward?" A trembling, desperate voice cut her off. Both Buffy and Edward whipped their heads around to face the direction it had come from. Buffy saw a young, slight, brown-haired woman making her way through the fountain at the center of the plaza.

"Who's Edward?" Buffy whispered, confused. But the vampire made no response. He was completely motionless, staring at the woman in the fountain as if he'd seen a ghost.

Wait a minute. It must be--

"Stella?" Buffy called out, hopefully. "STELLAAA!"

"Edward!" The girl was running toward the shadows where Buffy and Edward stood, their hands, forgotten, still clasped in Buffy's sudden handshake of scorn.

Buffy watched, puzzled, as the frantic-looking girl stopped dead in her tracks. She watched her tired brown eyes take in Edward, whose entire body was still frozen in shock, and then Buffy herself, which made them grow wide and fill with tears. She watched as those tear-glazed eyes trailed down Buffy's arm to where her hand was still grasping Edward's. She heard the painful intake of breath.

Huh. Neither the happy-reunion Buffy had been expecting, nor the righteous woman-scorned ass-kicking she'd secretly hoped for. Crazy kids.

"Edward?" Bella's voice faltered. "What's going on?"

* * *

**So, it's been a while . . . this fic is meeting the needs of, er, a select group of dedicated readers, and they were getting restless. Thank you for your support and friendly nagging. Reviewers get . . .a perfectly friendly gum offering (slug and disease free). Or a vampire with an oral fixation of their choice.  
**


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